thegraverunnersguildfandomcom-20200216-history
Hansel: Promises
“Doesn’t hurt that much,” Hansel muttered. Serena inspected the wound. Without her needing to say anything, he knew she wasn’t buying it, and she was too exhausted to so much as deign to give him a judgmental look about it. They all were—he was mostly talking to himself at this point, trying to convince himself that the slash across his arm wasn’t going to be the end of him. He closed his eyes and swallowed, letting her stitch the wound up, her magic too depleted to heal him properly. He was being dramatic. This wasn’t going to kill him, he knew that. But he kept thinking of Elitash, and her limp and the knots in her back, and how she’d stepped back into a less active position since he’d come aboard. There wasn’t another position for him to fill. He’d be useless. “At least the muscle’s not severed,” Serena said absently. Her bedside manner left something to be desired, but she was effective. She knew what she was doing. He’d be fine. It didn’t hurt that much. She pulled the thread tight and moved on—Hunter was stolidly holding her blood in on the table next to him, not complaining, and after her there was Crunch with broken claws, cooing quietly to comfort her little brother. Jonesy hadn’t gone light on any of them today. Hunter caught his eye, copying his inadvertent grimace as Serena went to work on her. They were alive, at least. Most of them. Some of the new hires had been lost, but the officers, the old hands, at least they were still around. He didn’t like that he’d grown to think of that as a tentative win. People came and went, lived and died. Mishka was still there. Sometime that was all that mattered. The room felt brighter when he swept into it, glancing across Serena’s patients and pausing by Crunch and Chirp to murmur something to them that seemed to lift their spirits, smiling softly and moving on. He pressed a bundle of herbs into Serena’s hands that she passed to Hunter, and the tiefling popped them into her mouth and her pain visibly eased. He’d been injured too, a scorch mark across his midsection, but seemed unaffected by it. He stopped by Hansel last, and Hansel told himself this didn't mean anything. “I'm gonna be fine,” he said immediately. “I'll be the judge of that.” Serena scoffed beside them, and Mishka switched to Orcish. “Are you in any pain?” “Nah,” Hansel lied. Mishka gave him a look—the one Serena hadn't bothered to. “There's no sense in suffering.” He moved to touch the wound, and Hansel brushed his hand away automatically. It never got easy for him, and he hated it about himself, but he managed to control the movement and grab Mishka's hand in his instead of pushing him away. “What about you?” “I'm fine,” Mishka lied just as breezily. Hansel gave him the same look and for a moment they smiled at each other, and the moment was golden and easy and painless. When Mishka went to prod the slice again, Hansel was still, containing his wince. His jaw tightened at the tiny furrow in Mishka's brow. “I can still use my shield. It'll be fine,” he repeated. “Maybe not the trident anymore, but I'll learn to one-hand it—.” “It's not your trident I'm concerned about,” Mishka snipped. “Well, I am.” “You should carry that shield more often anyway. I didn't buy it for you to not use it.” “I could've bought it my damn self—.” “Hans.” Mishka looked back up from his shoulder, clearly exasperated. “I don't care about the shield,” he muttered, and as he looked back down Hansel finally realized what he was doing—the pain had ebbed while they'd argued because he’d made his fingers cold against the hot wound, numbing it. Hansel wondered when he'd made that decision, to hold a little of himself back. When he'd seen the sword bite into Hansel? Before Jonesy's flames had surrounded him, or after? When they'd seen her colors flying over the horizon? When he'd asked Hansel if he wanted to marry him? Before even that? “I'll carry the shield.” Mishka glanced up at him and smiled, letting himself look tired for just a heartbeat. Hansel loved his face like that—a little less radiant, a little more soft. He wanted to see it more. He wanted to see it forever. He bent his neck slightly to kiss the top of Mishka's head, whispering, “I'll make it up to you later.” “Promises, promises.” Category:Vignettes